


(Not) On Some Backwater Smuggling Moon

by Onehelluvapilot



Series: Afterwards [2]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Damn that sounds dark, Gen, Hurt Poe Dameron, I hurt him because I love him, I'm going to stop now, Injured Poe Dameron, Let's make self esteem a common tag, Poe-centric, Self Encouragement, That's not what this fic is about btw, These tags are running away from me, This is just self indulgent Poe Dameron whump, Whump, Why are all the common tags that start with self- awful?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-03
Updated: 2018-01-03
Packaged: 2019-02-27 16:39:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13252293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Onehelluvapilot/pseuds/Onehelluvapilot
Summary: Just a bit of Poe fending for himself, and also hurting so prettily.





	(Not) On Some Backwater Smuggling Moon

**Author's Note:**

> Unbetaed, all mistakes are my own.

“Poe Dameron, you are not going to die here. You survived torture by the First Order, you survived a TIE fighter crash, and those things aren’t exactly known for their safety precautions, you survived Starkiller, you survived the attack on the Dreadnought and countless other space battles besides. You survived Crait and the fall of the Resistance. You are going to survive this. You were meant to die in a cockpit, not some foul-smelling back alley a block from a hangar on some smuggler’s moon from a simple blaster shot in your leg.”

This little pep talk he gave himself didn’t help all that much. He still felt like shit and couldn’t convince himself to get up from where he’d collapsed behind a dumpster. He was pretty sure he was bleeding out, and it was a three hour journey back to Yavin 4, which was the nearest place he could expect to get medical attention instead of another blaster shot, this one to his head. He would die if he stayed here, he knew. Those hired thugs would be back to finish the job any time now. He couldn’t seem to summon up the energy to care though. It might be easier, to not have to fight anymore.

He quickly shook himself out of that mindset. That was a flyboy mentality, thinking that he was alone in this, that his death would affect no one else, that they weren’t depending on him. No, the Resistance needed him to bring back this X wing. And with so few people left, they needed him as well. People were counting on him. Leia needed him back. So did Finn and Rey. And his father. That was enough to get him to move. He already had the keys to the ship in his pocket; all he needed to do was get to it and fly it home, which he could do in his sleep. But first to do something about this leg.

Poe levered himself to his feet, bit down in the collar of his jacket, pulled out his blaster, fired it at the ground, and then pressed the hot barrel of it against the wound. All he could take was a second, with a muffled scream around the fabric of his shirt, before his hand involuntarily dropped the blaster. It fell into a puddle, and started to hiss, releasing a little whiff of steam. He managed to stay on his feet, and in light of this small victory, allowed himself a minute to get his breathing back below hyperventilation levels. He wished he’d let someone else come with him. Rey had offered, and she could have just Jedi-mind-tricked the dealer into giving up the ship. In any case, he probably wouldn’t have ended up in this situation, or at least he would’ve had someone to lean on as he limped off down the alley. He would’ve been able to at least sleep on the way home if he’d brought BB, but the droid was still too recognizable, and he couldn’t grow a beard to hide his face. It would have been far too dangerous for the Falcon to hang around the planet after Rey and Chewie dropped him off to negotiate for the sale of the X wing, so he was on his own.

He climbed painfully into the ship, already painted black for him, and collapsed into the pilot seat. There was an awful moment when he turned the key and the ship wouldn’t start, but then it roared to life like an angry Rancor, and he headed for home, leaving, in proper rebel fashion, a few very angry thugs with blasters in his wake.


End file.
